


nor ever chaste (except you ravish me)

by y0u_idjits



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag: s6e5, Interpretation of Episode, M/M, Steter - Freeform, ghost riders, not endgame though, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/y0u_idjits/pseuds/y0u_idjits
Summary: Then the riders come, as does Peter Hale. "I just want you to survive with me."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from John Donne's poem, "Batter my Heart". Which the latest episode just did.
> 
> I apologize for any mistakes; I'm very tired and I didn't even proofread this.
> 
> To me, in this fic, time is fluid in the station and they spend much longer than just one episode there.
> 
> Enjoy.

The thundering of hooves suddenly fades, and Stiles feels the cold seat beneath him, hard against his back. Blinking, his eyes are met with a grey concrete ceiling, the cracked surface shadowed by the fluorescent light. The air is cool against his skin, the slight breeze leaving a trail of goose bumps on his skin.

He sits up groggily, wincing from the dull thumping in his head. In front of him are rows and rows of benches of a train station. In fact, once he gets a clearer look, it _is_ a train station. His heart speeds up as he takes in the other occupants of the room. The benches are dotted with people, young and old alike, all blank-faced and still.  His attempt to find answers returns nothing but confusion.

Then the riders come, as does Peter Hale.

 

**[“we don’t exist”]**

 

They avoid each other, for the most part. Stiles tries to discover an escape, to no avail. Peter lurks and hovers, but never approaches. There seems to be nothing beyond the room they’re in, save for the dark train tunnel. Stiles and the other boy – longer than Stiles in the station and still wanting to get home – accompany the werewolf many days down into the shadows. They walk for what seems like hours, days, _weeks_ , even, and eventually come to the end of the tunnel.

When they return, nothing in the station has changed, and they haven’t either.

 

 

**[“we don’t”]**

Stiles doesn’t know how long it’s been. Peter does occasionally join him, but mostly it’s just Stiles. He used to try avoiding the werewolf, but now he welcomes the company. The other boy is but a recollection now, a warning to them both not to try escaping again. Neither of them even mention it.

Stiles is afraid, if he’s going to be completely honest. He can feel it creeping, that cold, chilly loneliness, the quiet whisper in the corner of his mind to give up, to sit down and stop trying. It scares him because he’s reminded of another voice, darker and more dangerous. The nogitsune was something he defeated, but this? He’s not sure.

He’s really not sure, in fact, because there have been times where he has blinked and suddenly Peter has been standing in front of him, yelling his name and shaking him, trying to wake him up.

“I’m afraid,” he says one day, ( _is it day? or night? it’s hard to tell)_ not really sure if Peter’s listening or if he’s just talking to himself, “not that I’ll forget who I am, but who they are. What am I supposed to do if I can’t remember them?”

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until the face of the middle-aged woman opposite him starts to blur.

 

**[“we”]**

Peter sits by him, one day, when he’s in the radio room. Stiles isn’t sure how much time has passed ( _days? weeks? months?)_ but does know it’s the first time the other man has initiated contact with him.

“You’ve always been one for pointless knowledge,” Stiles is told (and doesn’t that make a strange feeling appear in his stomach?), “so I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me with this one.”

Stiles stars at him uncomprehendingly until Peter shoves a yellowing newspaper into his lap. The date is the sixth of August of the previous year and it’s opened on the crossword.

“Pretty girl; bauble or trinket. Nine letters, ends with ‘e’ and the second letter is a ‘c’,” Peter supplies, prompting Stiles to snap his mouth shut. “I’ve been stuck on it for the past while; I need it to solve the words around it.”

“Where did you even get this?” he blurts out, and Peter sighs like he’s an idiot.

“They blow in from the tunnel, Stiles,” the other man says with a roll of his eyes. “Now do you know the answer or not?”

Stiles thinks for a moment. “You’re sure the second letter’s a ‘c’?” The poisonous looks he gets in reply is all he needs as an answer, but after a short while, he tries “Would ‘tchotchke’ fit?”

He spells it out for Peter when asked, then peers over as the werewolf jots down the letters in the boxes. The grin he receives (and returns) is surprising but not altogether unwelcome.

The crossword is eventually, despite an argument or two, defeated by their combined efforts, and Stiles doesn’t realise until three crosswords later that he doesn’t feel quite as cold anymore.

 

**[“and we”]**

 

It’s while they’re walking the tunnel that it happens. Or, _finally_ happens, rather.

Stiles has felt it building up – every clue solved, every crossword completed. The articles they read together, translating them into as many languages as they have stored in their heads. The long walks in the darkness of the tunnel, never quite knowing how long it will take them to get back to the station, filled with all those breathing statues.

The games they play, the stories they tell; Stiles realises that this has been Peter’s way of coping, of staying _himself_ , because even though it’s easier for him as a werewolf, to not give in to the quiet is a challenge for his human side, too. They both need each other to remember what it’s like to live.

When their hands bump for the eleventh time since they began walking, Stiles considers just giving in and admitting defeat. This stalemate that they’ve come to, this impasse, this _standstill_ which neither is willing to give in to, be it from fear or doubt, is driving him slowly insane, though for what reason, he’s not sure.

He has made thousands of excuses to himself as to why he shouldn’t even consider it, most of them being Peter’s sociopathic tendencies, but it’s hard, when they’re alone in the dark, not to think of the reason he should: they’re all each other has.

It’s this that makes Stiles’ heart speed up, hammering away in his chest - loud enough for Peter to hear and slow slightly in his step. Their hands brush once more and Stiles doesn’t know if Peter means to linger for the smallest second, but he decides he can’t care, not if it means he can reach out and hold this time, instead of letting the chance slip by.

They stop, standing close in the darkness, hands holding each other loosely. Stiles can see the faint blue glow of Peter’s eyes and wonders what the other man sees. A step takes them closer, another brings them chest to chest, a question hovering in the air.

“You tried to kill me and my friends,” Stiles croaks out, his voice rough.

Peter chuckles, a rumble in his chest. “You helped kill me.”

Cringing slightly, “I, uh, dated your daughter,” is the next excuse Stiles comes out with.

“You threw me in an insane asylum for the supernatural,” comes Peter’s disgruntled reply.

Stiles swallows harshly. “I’m-” He stops and takes a deep breath, trying to calm his heart. “I’m in love with someone.”

Peter says nothing, only brings his hands up either side of Stiles’ face. “I’m not asking you to love me,” he whispers, “I just want you to survive with me.”

He leans in, eyes softly meeting Stiles’ own, with an expression on his face never witnessed before by Stiles. The slightest nod is all it takes, then their lips are touching, and they sink deeply into each other in a way that only the lonely really can.

 

**[“and we are”]**

It’s odd how much doesn’t change between them. They complete every crossword in the newspapers that blow in from the tunnel, each always convinced they know more than the other.  The stories they swap become, unintentionally, more personal as time goes on.

When they sleep, it is together, side by side and wrapped around each other. They constantly touch each other, be it a hand on the shoulder, fingers running through hair the brush of lips against a cheek.  Their kisses grow from shy and tender to deep and heated, though always in the shadows of the tunnel, away from the blank faces.

Stiles stands with the cold of the bricks against his back, the heat of Peter pressed tightly to his front. His breath is coming quickly, eyes rolling back in his head and fingers clutching broad shoulders. Peter’s lips kiss at his neck while his teeth nip and tease at the thin skin. There are hands under his shirt and those lips just find that point and _oh_ -

His hips buck up into Peter’s and he drags the other man’s face up to bring their lips together. Teeth clash and their tongues fight, the kiss reaching down into the pit of Stiles’ stomach. His hands travel south, pressing against a muscled chest, pausing slightly on the hips, and when they go lower, palming and squeezing, Peter lets out a low groan and rocks against him.

Hot skin meets the cold air with impatience, their frenzied movements both a help and a hindrance. This isn’t the first, the second, or even the fifth time they’ve done this. Bodies are pressed tightly against each other, rutting and sliding, slick with heat. Stiles grasps them both in his hand, emitting twin gasps, and Peter’s fingers skirt along the inside of Stiles’ thighs.

Both of them are both too busy with bare skin and growing anticipation that they nearly don’t hear the thundering of hooves.

A bruising kiss and a hand to help each other dress are the only goodbyes they get.

 

**[“and we are already”]**

 

Breathing real air again is one of the best feelings he’s ever had. Lydia has her arms around him and Scott is crying. Malia is to his left while his dad stands a few feet away, staring disbelievingly. It’s not until hours later that he even sees Peter.

“Scott told me,” he says, when everyone has gone to bed but the two of them. “About the keys. How you brought them back.”

To the untrained eye, Peter’s as casual as ever, leaning against the kitchen sink. But Stiles knows Peter, knows his breathing, his skin, his _taste_ , and so he knows that Peter is anything but relaxed. His decision is easy.

Leaning forward, he presses their lips together, almost sweetly, one last time. “Thank you for everything,” he breathes, staring into those blue, blue eyes.

“I should be the one thanking you,” comes the reply. “You’re the one who figured it out; you always are.” Peter smiles, sad and small. “So figure this one out, too.”

Stiles takes a step back. “You won’t tell?”

“It’s like I said, Stiles,” Peter grins, humourless. “We don’t exist here, and we are already forgotten.”

**[“and we are already forgotten”]**


End file.
